The Flame Priest (The Silk & Steel Saga) Read online

  The fire crackled, sending a shower of sparks into the dark.

  Enthralled, Kath whispered, “What happened to them?”

  The monk stared at her from across the fire. “They were betrayed.”

  The wolf rose to his haunches and tipped back his head, hurling a mournful howl into the night. The eerie wail scraped down Duncan’s spine. Danya tried to calm the beast, to no avail. Rising to all fours, the wolf shook his fur and stalked off into the night, as if the beast refused to hear more of the monk’s grim tale.

  Disturbed by the wolf’s behavior, the companions re-settled around the campfire. The black knight was the first to speak. “So the Star Knights failed and the great war happened anyway?”

  The monk nodded. “The world was broken by the War of the Wizards.”

  A grim hush settled across the campfire.

  Blaine said, “And now we chase the Mordant into the north.”

  Kath’s gaze narrowed. “The Mordant isn’t the only harlequin, is he?”

  “No.”

  Duncan stared at the monk. Such a clipped answer begged for more questions.

  Kath must have felt the same, for she pressed the monk for answers. “The Mordant is the oldest harlequin, the bane of the north, the enemy of the Octagon…but why must he be killed before all others?”

  “How little you understand. The Mordant is not just the oldest harlequin; he is the right hand of the Dark Lord.” The monk paused, staring at each of the companions in turn. “So much has been forgotten, yet you dare not underestimate the enemy we chase. In the time before the War of the Wizards, the counselor who goaded the kingdoms to war went by the name of the Mordant.”

  A shiver ran down Duncan’s spine.

  Kath stared slack mouthed, her face ghost-pale.

  Sir Tyrone made the hand sign against evil.

  The monk gave a solemn nod. “The Mordant started the War of Wizards. Our legends are his memories.”

  No more questions were asked.

  Sir Blaine rose to throw more wood on the fire and then drew his great blue sword to stand guard. The sapphire-blue blade gleamed in the firelight, a sharp edge against the Darkness. Duncan stared at the blue sword, a promise of protection yet it suddenly seemed an illusion. Despite the vigilance of the Octagon Knights the Mordant roamed the southern kingdoms. Duncan checked his bow and his long knife before crawling into his bedroll. He noticed the others kept their weapons close. The monk had given them much to think on, perhaps too much. Unable to sleep, he stared at the sky, but he found no solace in the stars.

  19

  The Mordant

  Sunlight streamed through trees, releasing the sharp scent of pine. Summer lay soft on the lands of Erdhe, lulling the people with peace, sheep oblivious to the wolf in their midst. The Mordant smiled as he walked. The comet heralded his coming, but few understood its portent. Soon they would learn, they would all learn. The Mordant lengthened his stride, following the dirt road north, always north.

  He considered stealing a horse but walking suited his needs. This simple act strengthened the bond between mind and body, fusing his will to flesh and bone, making him whole. He gloried in his new life, a thousand years of memory packed into a body twenty-two years young. Youth was such a heady elixir. Legs that walked leagues without tiring, a heart brimming with stamina, and senses that delivered a flood of tastes, smells, and carnal delights. The Mordant laughed. It took an old soul to truly appreciate the wonders of youth…all in the service of the Dark Lord.

  Knowing his eyes had lost the red glow of hell, he gained the appearance of a young man wandering the land in the golden robes of the Kiralynn Order. The Mordant reveled in the irony of his rebirth. Seeking fresh ways to damage his oldest enemy, he took the time to lay a fair few traps for those who were sure to follow. Seeds of chaos planted along the way, he wondered which would bear bitter fruit. Pity he wouldn’t be there to witness the harvest, but he’d learned long ago that the best traps were those sprung from a distance.

  Setting a ground-eating pace, he strode through forests and villages, comparing reality to memory. Much had changed. Wyeth, the once proud stronghold of the Star Knights, was overgrown with dark forests, empty except for the occasional village full of superstitious peasants. The ancient heart of Erdhe was hollow, soft and ripe for the taking. He laughed thinking of the victories to come.

  Spying a rocky outcrop, he climbed to the summit to scout the land ahead. His body took the steep slope in stride, barely breaking a sweat. The Mordant gloried in his vigor. Reaching the summit, he gained a sweeping view of the summer-cloaked land. The forests of Wyeth gave way to the fields and vineyards of Tubor, a patchwork of green and yellow farmland flush with bounty. A small village lay nestled below the ridge, stone chimneys sending tendrils of smoke into the clear morning sky.

  He scanned the horizon, searching for landmarks, trying to match the map in his mind to the view. Eye Lake lay to the west, a shroud of fog obscuring the volcanic mount at the lake’s heart. His young eyes served him well, but they could not pierce the unnatural fog. A slumbering power inhabited the ancient waters, something gray and unpredictable and better left undisturbed, hence his decision to take the eastern route, by-passing the lake. He averted his gaze, seeking a more pleasing sight. To the far north, the distant peaks of the Dragon Spine Mountains marked the northern limit of the southern kingdoms…and the start of his domain. Snow-covered even in summer, the mountains made a formidable barrier, but once crossed he could summon an army of servants. A powerful pull drew him to the north, a yearning to renew his power at the Dark source. Taking a deep breath, he quelled the need, focusing on the task at hand. Pulling his stare from the north, he searched in vain for a great city in the east. A blanket of unbroken forest stretched as far as the sunrise. Memories drew his gaze to the northeast. Trees of an unnatural height towered where the city should have stood. Grotesquely overgrown, the evergreen sentinels were something new, something unnatural…something unexpected. The Mordant fixed his gaze on the forest. Unexpected usually meant a rival for the Dark Lord’s favor…or tampering by the cursed Lords of Light. Either way, it posed a possible threat. Threats could not be permitted. He needed more information.

  The Mordant prodded the soul trapped within his mind, *Awake monk, I have a use for you.*

  *No! Leave me be, I will not aid you! I saw what you did to those women! With my own hands, with my own body, you tore them apart and spattered their blood upon the walls! No one should die such a death! You are a fiend, a monster! I curse you!* The captured soul pulsed with horror.

  The Mordant smiled, he’d forced the monk to witness his handiwork, giving the young man a taste of the Dark. *Come now monk, you know you enjoyed it…especially when I took the young girl.*

  *I walk in the Light! I walk in the Light!*

  The monk was amusing in his stubbornness, but he would eventually break, they all broke, succumbing to the allure of the Dark. *Come monk, I offer you the chance to see through my eyes, to walk in the sunshine, to feel the summer breeze upon my face, to smell the sun-warmed pine. Would you pass up this chance to taste the world?* The Mordant flooded the captured monk with the sights and smells of summer. The monk resisted, fighting longer than most, but his will eventually crumbled under the sensual onslaught. It was always this way. Isolated from all physical senses, the captured souls yearned for the world they’d lost. It was so easy to torture the damned. The Mordant smiled and mentally stepped aside, permitting the monk to see through his eyes.

  The monk’s soul flared with emotions, reveling in the luxury of sensations.

  *Obey me, monk, and you will be well rewarded.* The Mordant gave the monk a few moments to bask in the view, before reminding him of his chains. *Tell me monk, what is the virulent green that grows to the east? How does a forest come to reach such an unnatural height?*

  *How can I answer when I have never seen this before?*

  The monk spoke the truth yet he sought to deceive. Walls sla
mmed down, forcing the captured soul back into isolation.

  The young man howled for all that was lost.

  *You disappoint me monk. You must learn to be of service. Tell me what you know or I will rip the thoughts from your mind.*

  The monk became quiet and small, a pitiful attempt to hide.

  *You cannot hide from me, monk. Serve me or prepare to be raped. There is no other way.*

  He gave the monk time to consider.

  *I spoke the truth. I have lived all of my life in the Southern Mountains. I have never seen this place before.*

  *A shallow evasion. I asked what you know, not what you have seen. Surely your precious Order knows of this forest.* The Mordant focused his will upon the captured soul, a painful threat hanging by a slender thread. *One last time, monk, tell me what you know.*

  The monk cowered in a dark corner, a jumbled knot of fear and loss wrapped around a kernel of defiance. The Mordant struck, punishing the monk with waves of pain.

  The captured soul wailed. *I will tell you what I know, but it is not much.*

  The Mordant stayed the lash, studying his captive.

  *I have heard tales of a forest called the Deep Green. It grows where an ancient city once stood. Rumors say the trees grow unnaturally fast, reaching more than four times the height of an ordinary forest. Some believe the unnatural growth is due to residual magic soaked into the land from the War of Wizards. The Deep Green is a mystery that few dare to penetrate.*

  The Mordant considered the monk’s words. He knew of places steeped in residual magic…but a strange taint emanated from the towering trees, making the Mordant suspect that the Lords of Light had somehow meddled. He prodded the monk. *Tell me, monk, do any people live in this unnatural forest?*

  When the monk did not answer, the Mordant ripped the knowledge from his mind. What he learned enraged him. So the Light had meddled, threatening to undo his greatest triumph. The forest sounded too much like the Pit of the far north…a ruined crater where the Mordant bred ogres and twisted dwarves from human stock. He could only assume that the forest people possessed some type of wild and unpredictable magic…a threat against the Dark.

  The Light tampered with his triumph, but the Mordant walked the southern kingdoms, unknown and undetected, a perfect chance to foil the threat. Staring at the forest, he recalled the monk’s words. Hate and fear already existed between the forest-folk and the commoners of Erdhe. Hate and fear were two of the Dark Lord’s favorite tools. Possibilities tumbled through his mind.

  He made his decision, but for his plan to work he would have to shield the Darkness within. The red light of the Awakening had long since faded, but mortals who were god-touched or strong in the old magics could sometimes sense the Darkness lurking behind his eyes. Unwilling to take the chance, he forced the Darkness deep, burying it beneath his mortal shell. To the simple village peasants his pale blue eyes and open face would project nothing more than a young man enthralled with life. Satisfied, he set off at a brisk pace for the village below the ridge.

  His long stride covered the distance quickly, yet he did not reach the village until early evening. The sun set in a bloody blaze as the Mordant walked up the dirt road. Wagon ruts ran deep, the stink of horse dung mingling with the faint aroma of fresh baked bread. A dog howled and a sow squealed, but no one looked his way.

  Simple wooden cottages gave way to larger buildings made of mud daub and mitered logs. He passed an inn, a store, a stable, a blacksmith’s shop and a tavern. The Mordant slowed his pace, giving the villagers a chance to observe the stranger in their midst. The rich golden color of his monk’s robe drew curious stares. Despite the mud spatters and travel stains, the robe’s deep color spoke of a luxury beyond the reach of most farmers. The Mordant smiled and nodded to the villagers. None saw past his robes or the façade of his youth.

  Setting a smile to his face, the Mordant climbed the steps to the door of the tavern. Faded paint on a weathered sign named it “The Rusty Plow”. Dimly lit and drafty, the tavern’s great hall was crowded with the smells of spilled ale, greasy meat, and unwashed men. Wooden kegs lined one wall and a stone hearth with a smoldering fire filled the other. Tradesmen, farmers, and the odd traveler mingled together on crowded benches. The tavern did a good business despite the smallness of the village.

  The Mordant took his time choosing a table, choosing the human tools for his next trap. Breathing deep, he searched for the spark of Darkness that so many mortals carry in their souls, some deeper than others. Rowdy laughter caught his ear, drawing his attention to a table in the back. Half a dozen young men of peasant stock sat at a long table sharing a jest and a pitcher of ale. The Mordant studied the young men, looking for a thread of Darkness. Loud and full of themselves, they were of an age similar to the monk but their lives were yoked to the plow. Their raucous laughter and crude jokes hid an undercurrent of discontent and resentment, small seeds of Darkness waiting to be nurtured, the perfect prey for his plan.

  Beaming a broad smile, he fished a gold coin from the pocket of his robe. “I’ve coin for a pitcher of ale but no one to drink with. Would you share your table with a foot-weary traveler?

  Wary eyes became welcoming once they took in his rich robes and the gold in his hand. Young men jostled along the bench, making space for the mysterious traveler, never suspecting the threat they invited to their table.

  The Mordant took the offered seat and tossed the gold coin onto the table. Declaring a hearty thirst, he ordered a bottomless pitcher of ale. The single gold coin bought a table full of friends. Peasants were cheap and so predictable, mortals never seemed to change.

  Introductions were made and the inevitable questions asked. As tempting as it was to blame his intended deeds on the Kiralynn Order, this time the charade would not suit his purpose. Instead he claimed to be a storyteller from Lanverness, a journeyman wandering the kingdoms in search of fables and legends.

  A roar went up from the table, for storytellers were always welcome.

  The young men toasted their good luck and demanded a story from their new-found friend. The Mordant obliged, drawing on centuries of experience. Delving into his own memories, he ensnared the lads with tales of magic and wizards of old. And all the while he kept the ale flowing. As the night wore on, he seeded their minds with stories of injustice, weaving tales where younger sons broke their backs on land they could never hope to inherit. The stories found their mark, lancing a boil of Darkness deep within their souls. As the night lengthened, tongues loosened, and the young men admitted to being third and fourth sons of landed-peasants with no hope of inheriting any future. They roiled with the injustice of their lot. To peasant-farmers land was wealth, and there was never enough land to go around. The Mordant hid his smile; the wheel of time turned yet the plight of peasant-farmers never changed.

  The Mordant let the young men talk, filling their mugs and fueling their discontent. Righteous anger swirled round the table. Having prepared the ground, the Mordant planted his seed. Using a congenial voice, he struck the spark to dry tinder. “There’s plenty of land for the taking, why not look to the forest?”

  Roland, a curly-haired young man with the shoulders of a blacksmith, scowled. “The forest belongs to the Duke, a royal hunting preserve. We daren’t touch the land.”

  Tully, a gap-toothed red-head on Roland’s left added, “Our necks would be stretched by the noose if we cleared the Duke’s forest.”

  Similar warnings echoed the length of the table. They wanted the land but not enough to risk the Duke’s wrath.

  When the protests subsided, the Mordant seeded his true intent. “I didn’t mean the Duke’s forest. I meant the other one, the Deep Green, the forest infested with the cat-people.”

  Eyes widened and hands made the sign against evil.

  The Mordant hid his smile, amused by their superstitions. With a little prodding, stories of the forest-folk spilled out. The young men competed to tell the most gruesome tales, conjuring images of rituals wh
ere devils mated with beasts and human children were served as delicacies at dark feasts. They told of careless hunters wandering into the tangled green, never to be seen again. They spoke of homesteads cursed by the cat-folk so that crops failed and calves died at birth.

  The Mordant nurtured the stories of hate and fear. When their emotions reached a fevered pitch, he struck flame to their tinder. “Why let the cat-people infest the very land you deserve, good land that could be used for rich new homesteads?”

  A hushed stillness settled across the table.

  In a voice thick with ale, Roland said, “But what about the Duke?”

  “The cat-folk are a curse on the land, an unnatural blight infesting the forest. I’m sure the Duke would reward those who freed the forest from evil. Reward them with rich land hungry for the plow.”

  Stares shifted around the table, unsure.

  Reaching for his most persuasive voice, the Mordant whispered, “It could be done quietly, under cover of darkness so that no man is accused yet the deserving benefit. You will all gain more land, rich land, soil that has never been touched by the plow.”